nolady | storm of swords!au - king's landing (for serkingslayer)

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jaime

storm of swords!au - king's landing (for serkingslayer)

In spite of her release from prison, Brienne cannot ignore the suspicion there are those who still think her responsible for Renly's death. If only she could plead with them, find a means of making them believe her sincere and true devotion - but to speak up now, inside King's Landing, would mean an accusal of treason against her for certain. For Joffrey is the king here, not Renly, and the Tyrells have secured their futures by serving him instead.

Brienne's loyalty is not so easily won, though she knows she must not speak her true feelings out loud, lest she wind up back in the dungeons from which she has only just been freed. She is well aware that Jaime had placed her there for her own safety, until the truth could be verified. Now, all she can do is what she has been trained to do: to serve, and to fight as a member of the Kingsguard - if not for her king, than for another.

She does not wish to be thought of as any less of a knight here, and it is for that reason she continues to practice, in the early morning hours down by the stables, where there is a clear space and a tree trunk marred by the strikes of her blade as she moves through the forms of her attack. She does not wear her armor now, a thin shirt and a pair of breeches clinging to her ungainly form. The opponent she fights is harmless enough.

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"Well, then," she murmurs - and rather than answer, she turns on one heel and begins to head to her quarters, her long uncovered legs taking her in a stride that covers more ground than the noblewomen do in their skirts.

She manages to duck into a smaller alcove without waiting to see if he has followed, her mind overwhelmed. The castle is still waking up, and will be bustling with activity once the nobles require attending to, but here she attempts to catch her breath, momentarily closing her eyes.

Jaime hesitates, uncertainty taking over. He can't pretend this is anything but some sort of likely bad idea. Nevermind who they are...and he is making assumptions he ought not make and isn't even sure he wants to make.

His thoughts are twisting around themselves like mythical dragons, and burning just as badly in their own way.

But...he follows, too curious, now, not to.

Brienne hears the sound of footsteps approaching, and though a part of her is curious, the other part is reluctant to be caught wandering about the corridors by a member of the Kingsguard. She hasn't yet earned her place among them, and her presence in an unusual place would be met with suspicion.

When she glances around the corner to see who it is, a different kind of expression crosses over her face and she steps out. "What do you think you are - "

Now she does hear the sound of the Kingsguard - several members, judging by the number of footsteps and the clank of light armor. Her desire not to get caught overpowers any other instinct, and she grabs hold of Jaime by the shoulder and pulls him into her quarters, closing the door just before they're discovered.

She rounds on him with a shake of her head. "I do not know where to begin."

Jaime feels a flicker of amusement at her haste to keep them from being discovered, though there is a flicker of relief in that, as well. Her words have him frowning, though, stepping back a little toward the safety of the door. His left hand is awkward even at dragging through his hair, messing it up, but it's an easier move than others. It's cramping though from the workout, unused to the strength needed for the grip of a heavy sword.

"I...do not either," he admits, as well, and the truth of that is a little stunning to him.

"No, I meant - you!" Brienne exclaims, nearly throwing up her hands in astonishment. Truly there has never been a man who has made her temper rise so; she's nearly tempted to begin pacing the room, finding a way to curb her restless energies. There will be no calling for a maid now, not while he's still here, and there will be no sending him out until she's certain there is no one outside.

"Have you given no thought to the rumors that would fly had you been discovered?" she hisses, taking a step closer to speak in a whisper in case there happens to be anyone listening at the door. "The Kingslayer in Brienne the Beauty's rooms. I imagine the gossipmongers at King's Landing are more vicious than most."

Jaime gives her a startled look, then laughs--admittedly more quietly for her whispers. It's startled and genuine and at the same time, oh-so-very bitter.

"Rumors have been flying about me since I was seventeen, my lady. Hadn't you heard? They've started a war over them." He moves past her, pacing her room, then pauses and frowns.

"Is the thought of your name tied to mine so distasteful?" He thought, likely, it would be worse for her. They whispered about him sleeping with Cersei, one of the great beauties of the land. No one would truly believe that here he had come to Brienne's room with any illicit intent. Perhaps that was what shamed her. He didn't know.

He did know she was the only person in this entire shining city he trusted--even his brother made him wary, these days, and that was an uncomfortable feeling.

She knows his laughter is not mocking in any way, and yet she has been on the receiving end of cruelty before. It is difficult to not associate one with the other. His answer, however, gives her pause.

"No man - no knight - would wish their name linked to mine in such a manner," Brienne finally admits, countering the quiet confession in her words with a taller posture, standing up straighter and lifting her chin.

But there is a subtle tremor there in her jaw as she struggles to hold steadfast, unfeeling.

Jaime gives her a look, and moves back to her, not so close as to crowd her, but close enough he can reach out to touch that trembling jaw, brush a fingertip along it. He shakes his head and steps back from her. No matter what else, she should not have to suffer uninvited touches, even from him.

"You sell yourself too short, my lady. And men who would scorn you and your name do not know your true and loyal heart, the honor you carry, and the skill you bring to your calling. There is far more worth in that than in the loveliest face in the Seven Kingdoms. You are, perhaps, the truest soul I have ever met. You shame me with it, in fact. 'Tis my name that would tarnish yours, not the other way around. No matter what foolish tongues might say."

If he called her beautiful, she would think him mocking her, he knows, but, in truth, she's becoming so the longer he knows her. Objectively, her looks have not changed, but friendship and affection do not have an objective gaze.

She doesn't correct him when he calls her a lady. In truth, there was one other man who only really saw her as such, who treated her as a woman fit to carry a sword, and he is dead now. She is accustomed to mocking and insincerity instead, to too much cruelty. Poems would be written about her visage, but only if the scribe was hoping for a laugh.

And now this man, the one whose sister is regarded as the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms, is placing higher value in her honor? Were it not for the utter ridiculousness of the situation, she'd be half-convinced that all of this was the result of some dream. It would surely be the strangest she has had.

"Kingsl - Jaime," she says, correcting herself on the name, per his request. She struggles to speak any other word, and when her gaze finds his, it is not with the confidence of a knight, but the uncertainty of a maiden who cannot explain why she trembles.

The comparison to Cersei was quite deliberate, and it is likely problematic that there is such bitterness behind that. He would have--and had--done anything for his sister, but his world feels upside down now, and not feeling as if he can trust her is tearing him apart. It's not wise, he thinks, to be here, like this, and perhaps she was right to not want him here, even if her reason was wrong.

He doesn't--can't--know his own mind and he would not pull her into the morass of lies and deception that swirl through his own life. He means it, too, when he says his name can only tarnish hers. The truths they whisper are easy to believe because of the lies they think they know. Joffrey has no right to the throne. In his opinion, neither did Renly, but only because he was completely ineffectual as a leader, no matter how charming. Stannis may claim the right, but no one wants him for their king.

Honestly....the Young Wolf might have been the best choice, but he let youthful impulsivity cloud his judgment. Gods, couldn't the boy have done what men have done for all of time and married the girl he was supposed to and taken the one he wanted as his mistress? But Jaime can't say any of that, not to Brienne, not to Cersei. They are Lannisters, and, in the end, why not rule? Joffrey needs to be horsewhipped, but his father, for all his cruelty...well. Those in service to Casterley Rock have never suffered the vagaries the last two kings placed on the people of the Kingdoms. His father is hard, heartless and cruel, and a little too greedy for power...but he's an efficient soldier and an able leader.

Jaime just wishes...he doesn't even know, and his name hangs in the air there, between them, and she is looking at him like he is supposed to have answers for questions he doesn't know how to frame.

"I apologize, my lady..." he isn't sure for what, but he knows he owes them everywhere.

It is difficult, she supposes, to separate the harshnesses of her past with his presence here now, in her present. The days when she was a member of Renly's camp are not that distant in her memory, the favors and gifts all hiding the cruel truth of a game among men to see who would be the first to claim the prize of her maidenhead. But here is he, standing here, telling her that their association would be as much a tarnish on her reputation as she is convinced it would be for his.

She has seen more of him, she believes, than most people who provide fuel to the harshest of rumors have. The truth about what happened with the Mad King - and glimpses, here and there, into the man who earned himself the name Kingslayer. In turn, she does not believe she has been that forthcoming in response, and yet he stands before her and declares her loyal, true.

There are things she has not allowed herself to feel as a knight, weaknesses that would expose her under the eyes of her critics. She would never dream of swooning before a man, presenting herself to anyone in such a manner. The furrow between her brows deepens, and her lips part, but there is no response from him.

She has stood exposed before him once, though those were different circumstances than these, and yet her hands do not betray her by trembling as she lifts them to the hem of her shirt, slowly pulling it free of her trousers and then up over her head. She is no womanly figure to look upon - small breasts, muscular arms and broad shoulders. The shirt slips from her fingertips as she lets her arms fall to her sides, standing in front of him, unblinking.

Jaime isn't certain what she is thinking--she is not someone he can read easily. Her honor, her way of thinking...He knows how to get a rise out of her. That's easy, and trial and error. But just talking, having any idea what to say...

The sweep of her hands, the shirt that comes off, leaving her there before him, startles him into further silence. His eyes widen a little bit, and for all he stared in the baths, he is reluctant now. Not out of any....lack of appeal, but because he worries she still places him somewhere with those who taunt her, if perhaps the best of a bad bargain, or...

Well, as he realized. He does not understand her. But his gaze can't quite pull away. It roams over her, and womanly or not, her body shows her strength, her skill. It is a warrior's body. He takes a step toward her, then falters, uncertain of his own actions, her purpose. Does she want him to touch? Is she challenging him to look her down, to try it and lose his balls as well as his hand? Is it a request, an offer, a taunt, a challenge, a rebuke?

He does not want to misstep--to insult, frighten or disappoint.

He has never been a coward, however, and so, keeping his gaze on hers, light and curious, he asks, "What do you want?"

There is nothing in her stance to reveal her fear, no shrinking away or cowering in the corner or attempting to shield herself. The only hint of hesitancy is in her gaze, brief and fleeting and almost easy to miss if he is not paying close enough attention - and yet she knows that he is, cannot pretend that he is ignoring any one part over another. Jaime Lannister is a man who sees everything.

He takes a step towards her, and she does not yield any ground, lifting her chin slightly as if anticipating. In truth, she has not thought ahead. The first move had been impulsive; the second may be similarly thus.

He is too worldly not to truly understand what it is she means to imply, though perhaps he is in denial. Perhaps he is trying to avoid insult by pretending he does not know. It would be easy for him to make his excuses now, to leave her standing here with more than pride wounded. Should she give him that opportunity? Should she even make it an option?

He is close enough for her to reach for his hand, and she takes it into her own, slowly guiding it up until she can press his palm flatly against the subtle curve of a breast. She may be hard angles and tough skin in certain places, but here she is soft, fair and lightly freckled, her chest rising and falling a little quicker at the touch of his hand.

There are different forms of worldliness. Jaime has watched the games courtiers play since childhood, knows well, yes, the ways of men and women....but he's only ever touched one. Desiring gazes cast his way, he ignored. False as Cersei might be, Jaime loves and loves hard. That isn't something he can say, here and now, though, or admit to the turmoil in his head--the desire to reach out, to pull her close, and the lifetime of restraint, to stay pure in his own fashion.

But she moves, and he doesn't resist, his hand automatically curling to fit around her breast, stroke slowly over her skin, almost wonderingly. She's so soft, and that shocks him somehow, even though he could see it. But, still...this layer of softness, this roundness, is hard to imagine when you have seen her fight, skilled and unguarded and for some reason the vulnerability in the moment, in the touch, in her skin, catches him.

He moves closer, and his hand stays where she has placed it, for the most part, though his fingers drag over that soft skin, slip inward to tease a circle around, then returns to softly cradling, just his thumb stroking, circling her nipple, watching for it to harden, to know his touch pleases.

The breaths that she takes quicken slightly, a sharp intake through her nose and then a subtle hitch in her throat. She swallows down her nerves and realizes that somewhere along the way his hand has moved, shifted over her skin, fingers curving to touch more deliberately instead of the harsh mashing of his palm against her breast. She glances down as if captivated by the sight, but then her eyes lift slowly to his face, the angles of his handsome face.

She responds to that touch in more ways than one, her body drawing taut and trembling under the mere circling brush of fingertips, the nipple perking firm as gooseflesh rises on her arms.

His face is hovering in front of hers in the small space between their bodies, and she leans in, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on her face, close enough for the tip of her nose, broken many times over, to brush his. Still her eyes search his, wide and bright and wondering, and her fingers curl into fists at her sides before flexing outward, open.

The urge is there, to slide fingers through her hair, close the distance that way, kiss her properly, just to see what it's like, but the shift of his right arm, the memory of...why he can't makes him flinch a little internally, cursing his own clumsiness. But she's close enough now that he doesn't need to pull her closer, truly.

She leans and he meets her, tilts his head to let their noses pass, his lips find hers.

It's as achingly gentle as the fingers who still drift over her, wondering, light and easy, teasing touches, not so awkward at this touch as so many others, but still...a touch awkward, from nerves and confusion as well as trying to figure out how to touch her properly with his left hand.

It may not be awkward but it is how she feels, awkward and long-limbed and too ungainly for his tastes - or she perceives herself to be that way, at least. The touch of her mouth to his is as slight and unsure as the rest of it - in this arena, she does not quite know how to handle herself, but she understands the basics. She had once been considered a lady, and it had been hoped she would marry, and the knowledge of how to conduct one's self intimately with a man had been impressed on her.

She had never once imagined it would be Jaime's face before her, his hand touching her, his body pressed lightly to hers.

Slowly, she lifts her hands, one at a time, to cup that face, grasping as she deepens the kiss, instinct guiding her rather than any expertise.

Jaime's breath catches as she deepens the kiss, and, for a moment, he follows her lead, tasting her lightly, tongue teasing against hers. It's different than kissing Cersei, and he's fascinated by that, rather than disappointed. His hand slides slowly up from her breast, tracing over her collarbone, up over her shoulder until he can curl it around the back of her neck, let his fingertips rest against the edges of her short hair.

He's less certain about his other arm, but he shifts it around her--the arm itself works, after all, to pull her a bit closer, feel the press of her against him in new and interesting ways.

His body is strong against hers, hidden strength now. Half a corpse and half a god, she remembers, recalling the moment she had first thought him thus at Harrenhal. Underneath all of that he is still a man, and though she does not know what to do, her body somehow takes over where her mind fails. Her mouth softens, yields against his, losing more of its stiffness.

She feels the slide of his arm, skin against the subtle curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, and she finds all she can do is respond, her lips parting as his tongue sweeps between them, touches hers and pulls back. It is she who initiates as their mouths spar the way their swords do, clashing together and breaking apart.

It's tentative, in some ways, the way he kisses her, but when she adds the more familiar sparring edge, he relaxes somehow--as if this, at least, has established some normalcy in this new exercise. Sparring is something they do well.

He meets the challenge, his tongue warring with hers more skillfully than he can with a sword, currently. His arm tightens more, melding her body against his.

She's harder, tighter than he is used to, but the softness of her presses against him in ways that cause him to stir, begin to harden with interest in that way she presses and softens.

There are things that she has heard about, mostly in whispers, but she has a vague and uncertain concept of what happens when a man stirs to attention, for lack of a better term. Still, it takes her a moment or two of feeling that evidence against her to understand what it truly means, and rather than shy away or blush like an innocent maid, she steps into him, her lean lines somehow fitting to his broader frame.

"Ser Jaime," she murmurs, her already low voice lower still. Her heart gallops in her chest, thundering and unrelenting, as if it means to burst out of her. Her fingertips find the bottom of his shirt, coaxing, beckoning, but falling short of their ultimate intention.

"Just Jaime," he murmurs back, because there's no need for titles here and now and he wants to hear her say his name, properly. Intimately. His lips slid from hers to ghost along her jaw, tasting the salt on her skin and finding that, too, oddly arousing. She's warm from their work in the field, warm and real and he breathes in the scent of her as his fingers slide slowly over her skin, learning her shape, stroking in long, slow movements.

When she plays with the edge of his shirt, he moves to wrap his hand around hers and guide it underneath, pressing it against his skin before he goes back to touching her. He's still too thin from captivity. He knows this, but there's growing strength there, too.

She'd called him Kingslayer to his face, many times over and some besides, before that moment in the baths. There he had asked her to call him Jaime, just once before he'd lost consciousness. He asks her again now and there's a corresponding tightness in her chest as she swallows, nods, making the silent promise to herself as well as him.

"Jaime," she echoes, her fingers curving against the planes of his stomach. He is thinner now, but her hands are still exploratory, still longing, even if they temporarily still when his mouth descends to her jaw and she tips her head back, eyes slowly falling shut. Both of her hands slide up higher, beneath his shirt, over his chest, the fabric catching on the strong bones of her wrist and rising to expose more skin.

"Better." Her touch is so different than what he's known--she doesn't know him, but she's exploring, learning, and that is an entirely different sort of erotic. When she hits a particularly sensitive spot, he rewards her with a moan, lips parting against her skin, teeth nipping gently here and there as he runs his mouth over her neck.

He shifts a little bit, encouraging her further into the room, toward her bed. He's getting stronger, but she makes his knees weak with the way she responds, and he wants more than he can easily have standing here.

There are so many different sensations that she had previously been unaware of - the action of using teeth against skin, for example, instead of lips or trailing tongue. That gentle nip to her throat makes her shudder against him, the tiny pink buds of her nipples drawing into tighter peaks of arousal.

When he moves, she moves with them, not unlike the dance they do with swords, feet shifting across the floor. Her bed is mere feet away - the room is not meager by standards, though it is smaller than some, and it does not take them long to reach. She sits down slowly, her face almost a picture of determination as she reaches for the fastenings on his pants, undoing them slowly, deftly with her long fingers.

storm of swords!au - king's landing (for serkingslayer)

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